


and let nothing you dismay

by pyrrhlc



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, Fluff and Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-12 21:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16879263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: “A Christmas party? Here?” Combeferre asked. “I’m not sure you’ve thought about the logistics of this.”In which Courfeyrac has a not all-together terrible idea.





	and let nothing you dismay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talefeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talefeathers/gifts).



> Happy holidays to the wonderful [Julia](http://sickburnsides.tumblr.com/)! I hope you like this.

“A Christmas party? Here?” Combeferre asked. “I’m not sure you’ve thought about the logistics of this.”

“He never does,” Enjolras replied from the opposite end of the room. His voice was muffled, distorted by the box of tinsel he was peering into. Because it was Christmas, and because it was Enjolras, his face wore an expression of continuous distaste. The word _tacky_ was not one Enjolras was altogether used to, but because they lived with Courfeyrac, _tacky_ was the rule. And so, apparently, was a Christmas party. Combeferre frowned a little harder at the tree lights stretched out before him on the dining room rug. Steps away, still making tea, Courfeyrac announced his first defence.

“We’ve never hosted one before,” he argued, rallying in spite of Enjolras’ expression and Combeferre’s polite scepticism. “It could be great. We could bake latkes for Marius, and—”

“No, wait.” Enjolras interrupted. He drew out a particularly flat-looking piece of tinsel from the box and draped it half-heartedly over a shelf, ignoring Courfeyrac’s squawk of protest. “There’s, what, fourteen of us? This place is tiny. It just wouldn’t work.”

“There’s not—” Courfeyrac began automatically, then stopped, counting the number of _amis_ off on his fingers. “Oh. Well, we could still _try_ and squeeze us all in. If Bilbo Baggins can manage—”

“Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta manage it just fine every year,” Combeferre said, in the tone of thinking out loud. Enjolras nodded, satisfied the argument was won. Then Combeferre continued, “And their place is quite small. So maybe—”

Courfeyrac made a gleeful noise. “Yes!”

“Absolutely not,” Enjolras said. He grabbed hold of another piece of tinsel, stalking across to the kitchen and waving it in a sufficiently threatening manner at Courfeyrac from across the kitchen island. “You’d want even _more_ decorations, I suppose? And food, and all the rest of it—”

“I have Ferre’s vote,” Courfeyrac argued (someone nonsensically, Enjolras thought.) “That’s two against one. That means a Christmas party. But that – what are we going to do about Jehan celebrating the winter solstice?”

*

“You do seem,” said a voice from somewhere above him – Enjolras looked up to find Grantaire looking at him with an expression of feigned pity – “You do seem somewhat miserable tonight, Enj. Anyone would think you were cajoled into this party against your will.”

“Cajoled!” Enjolras echoed. He looked up to survey the dining room – barely distinguishable beneath Courf’s tried and tested method of tinsel, glitter and ribbon – and sighed heavily into his glass. “Yes, a little. But it’s worked out all right, I suppose. In the end.” He frowned at the drink in Grantaire’s hand. “R, is that – are you drinking _vodka_ at Christmas?”

Grantaire sat down on the couch beside him, landing with a heavy _thump!_ of the cushions. His glass remained intact. He drained it quickly with a grin.

“So complains the Grinch,” he replied, “who insists on being left alone right up until Christmas Eve so he can finish his goddamn _thesis._ You need to stop that. You need to stop working during the holidays. It’s downright bad for you.”

Enjolras put down his glass. He was not tipsy. He would _dare_ to be tipsy. He turned and fixed Grantaire with a determined expression.

“I am not a _Grinch_ ,” he said, huffing. “I’m an atheist, and I’m against hyper-consumerism. That’s all.”

“Are you sure? There’s more tinsel in this house than one fears to count.”

“Not a Grinch.”

Grantaire reached across the side table for Enjolras’ drink, drained it quickly and stood up. “Alright, Apollo. Whatever you say.”

Enjolras watched him go without comment, blending into the general kerfuffle of moving arms and legs and mistletoe. Courfeyrac’s terrible Christmas music bore down on him from all directions. He watched as Feuilly and Bahorel stepped slowly past, the former apparently trying to teach Bahorel the Christmas tango. It was not going well.

“Enj, I wish you’d look less miserable about this. We do this every year. It’s really not so different from all the other times.”

Enjolras looked up into his friend’s face. A paper hat was draped over the top of his tightly curled hair, which could only mean the worst was yet to come.

“Last year I could go whenever I pleased,” he said to Combeferre. He wished suddenly that Grantaire hadn’t drunk his drink; he was going to need it to survive this kind of questioning. “Last year I could lock myself in the bathroom when it got to the part where Courf drinks his three annual bottles of brandy. This time it’s four and it’s in my house. I never want to see another piece of tinsel again.”

“But you did such a remarkable job!” Combeferre replied. He held out a hand; reluctantly, Enjolras took it. “Come on. Marius has been helping me with the vegetables. He doesn’t like all this noise much either.” Enjolras pulled himself from the couch, sniffing all the while.

“Nobody calls Marius a humbug,” he complained nonsensically. Combeferre shook his head at him as he led him into the kitchen.

“That’s because Marius is Jewish,” he replied. “If he wants to force-feed us all latkes, he is allowed.”

“Actually, I brought apple cake this year,” Marius added helpfully, stepping out from behind the open fridge. He offered one tentatively to Enjolras. “ _Hanukkah Sameach_?”

“It could be a better Hanukkah,” Enjolras grumbled, but he took the apple cake nonetheless. Combeferre, smiling, departed as quickly as he had arrived. Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief for the quiet kitchen. He turned to Marius. “Do you need help with anything?”

“I still need to add the eggs to the _challa_ dough,” Marius replied, serious as always. “And Jehan’s Yule log is due to come out of the oven in about five minutes. Let me just ask Courf is we have any more vanilla—”

“No, don’t bring him in here—” Enjolras pleaded, but Marius was already beyond earshot and out of the room. He sighed and rolled up his sleeves.

“Enj! Don’t start yet. You need to wash your hands,” chastised a voice from behind him – Enjolras turned to find Cosette standing by the back door, her green wellingtons covered in bits of slush and snow. She was wearing a Christmas jumper. Enjolras wearily saluted her.

“Yes, Ma’am.” he said. Cosette beamed, moving to take off her coat. She watched him carefully for a few moments before speaking.

“Are you feeling OK?”

Enjolras grunted, cracking two eggs over the side of a small glass bowl. He tipped them half-heartedly into the _challa_ dough mix and stepped back from the side. “I’m fine. I don’t have to like Christmas.”

“No, but you’re usually happier than this,” Cosette countered, her voice careful. Enjolras bit down on his bottom lip.

“It’s not a problem,” he said. “I just – I don’t feel like celebrating this year. It’s been – well, it hasn’t been great, has it?”

“No,” said Cosette slowly, “But it hasn’t all been terrible, either. We made a lot of progress this year, didn’t we? Amidst the setbacks. The university sit-in went well. And we got the board to listen to us when it came to changing their inclusion policy.” She paused, waiting. Enjolras couldn’t see her expression. “There’s always next year. There’s always another day.”

Enjolras’ grip on the counter-top lessened; he released his fingers and turned to her, smiling faintly. “You’re right,” he said. The smile grew a little wider. “You’re often right.”

“Wrong,” Cosette said, smiling in return, “I’m _always_ right. Come on, let’s get this Yule log out of the oven. It’ll be time to plate up soon – could you peel those parsnips?”

*

Dinner was a ramshackle affair, Enjolras thought, but it was far from failure. He leaned forward to glance down the table – three tables, really, pushed together and covered with a small multitude of tablecloths and candles, tinsel angels and Marius’ miniature Hanukkah menorah – and smiled at the mild carnage. The apple cakes, challah bread and Yule log had been hugely successful, as had the small army of prepared vegetables and cut turkey. Bahorel had spilled the gravy, but then, Bahorel always spilled the gravy. Feuilly had just put his elbow in it. Jehan was proudly dictating (with the help of Gavroche) the explosive history of crackers to Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. Everything was as it should be, and Enjolras, for the first time, felt content. He sighed and sat back in his seat.

“Are you still mad at me?” Courfeyrac asked, from the left. He lifted up a Christmas cracker rather sheepishly. “I’m really hoping you aren’t still mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” Enjolras said quietly. He glanced sideways at Combeferre, deep in conversation with Éponine and Cosette. “I’m glad we did this. It’s nice.”

Courfeyrac blinked. “Are you drunk?” he asked. It was not a typical question, but Enjolras understood why he asked it. Any other day, he would be asking himself the same question. But not tonight.

“No,” he said, reaching for the other end of the cracker and giving it a tug. A smile lit up Courfeyrac’s face. “Just happy.”


End file.
